


I'll be Your Slaughterhouse (Your Killing Floor)

by Darker_Side



Series: My Dear, We are Slow Dancing in a Burning Room [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Angst, Canon divergence - post 4x06, Dark!Chloe, Dark!Lucifer, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deep Dark Truths, Dubious Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, Forced Orgasm, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Internal Conflict, Intimidation, Light Choking, Manhandling, Mentions of deceased family, Mild Blood, Petty as hell, Red Devil Eyes, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Strength difference, The Worst Kind of First Time, They Get Mean, Unresolved Ending, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, fire starting, gun play? without the play, ish?, ruined orgasm, sex as anger management, thought-provoking dirty talk, verbally abusive dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darker_Side/pseuds/Darker_Side
Summary: “In true Lucifer fashion, let’s make a deal, Detective,” he offered, letting his mind switch to the carnal side of things, dipping a foot into the sins-of-the-flesh pool, slowly leaving the hellfire bath he had been soaking in, pruned and scalded.Lucifer waited, of course he did. Counted the seconds as they turned into minutes, still no response came, no act to escape. He sighed, a bothered sort of sound, as if she had been wasting his time, like she wouldn’t acknowledge there was no other way the night would go. “If you’re wet, right now,” he said, eyeing down her entire body, lingering at the space his hips were touching her torso, acting as if he could see through their bodies, see under her clothes to what he was wanting. “I fuck you into the ground. If you’re not, I leave. For good,” he finished, a dangerous smirk on his plush lips, an eyebrow raised in a question awaiting response. “How does that sound, hm?”--Lucifer and Chloe have a lot to say to each other.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: My Dear, We are Slow Dancing in a Burning Room [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756186
Comments: 108
Kudos: 159





	I'll be Your Slaughterhouse (Your Killing Floor)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken’s Wishbone
> 
> The darkest thing I’ve ever written. It’s intended to be hard to read, perhaps even uncomfortable. I used it to show the darkest parts of Chloe’s humanity, all the possibilities she could have been thinking. Lucifer’s darkness is more apparent, I mean, you have an eternal scapegoat for all of humanity’s evil, his Father banished him for having a sense of self… you’d be pretty bitter, too. This is the worst of the worst for both of them. 
> 
> Please, heed the tags. I want everyone to feel completely safe going into this. Read the tags, understand them, and then continue, if you feel comfortable. It's probably not as bad as I've made it out to be, but everything in the tags is included, and there's probably stuff I haven't tagged that I should, so let me know if you see something I need to tag.
> 
> If you feel you need further explanation of the tags, hop down to the end notes, so as to not to spoil anyone who feels comfortable reading ahead without it.
> 
> Some songs to get your through it:
> 
> [Thy Art is Murder - Reign of Darkness](https://youtu.be/YcvQFZ3dooQ)
> 
> [Code: Pandorum - Chosen (Venom Remix)](https://youtu.be/iV_CB4rHPsE)
> 
> [Hidden Citizens - [I Just] Died in Your Arms](https://youtu.be/3peqUOWSCJs)

_“You will always have it in you.”_

_“You’re the Devil.”_

_\--_

_“I’m the Devil. Yes. This feels just right.”_

* * *

Breaking the cretin’s spine hadn’t been difficult. The hands that had been on him didn’t belong to the woman he wanted them to belong to. The eyes that had looked at him with reverence and acknowledgment were not the pale blue he dreamed of. Those facts sent rage and heat through his torn, demented soul. The fire that sat at embers became full flames, raging and destructive, burning away any doubt he had on himself. This was who he was and always would be. Terror incarnate, ruler of fear and pain. The embodiment of evil. Punishment gave way to flesh.

Leaving an example of the worst his Father had to offer the human race, Lucifer took Eve back to the penthouse. He didn’t utter a single word to her the entire drive over. She spoke of his true nature, how proud she was of him to finally accept it. How happy she was that he was acting like his old self again. How spending time with the Detective had dampened all the things that made him the seductive serpent he used to be. It wasn’t until Chloe’s title fell from the first sinner’s lips did he feel like he had lost control of himself. He had looked at Eve and felt something hotter burst in his chest; a hatred that _she_ was the one who had said those things. That _she_ was the one to accept him.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t fair.

Eve had looked confused and worried when Lucifer wouldn’t get out of his car. Once she was out and had closed the passenger door, he sped off, seeing the flow of red in the wind through the rearview mirror. She would be mad. She would be curious, but she would be there. That was an inevitability in Lucifer’s existence now. No matter how bad he was to Eve, she would still be there. It would be pathetic if he didn’t enjoy benefitting from it. Always a hole to fuck when he got home. Always a pair of subpar arms to hold him like he mattered.

\----

Parked outside of her home, he looked down at himself. He was still in the shirt with bullet holes, and that was something she would surely notice. He realized, for the first time in years, that he didn’t care. He didn’t care if that pissed her off. He didn’t care if that further showed her his invulnerability away from her presence. He just didn’t care. It frightened him, and that just stirred up more seething anger. He used to not care before she walked into Lux that night; but now that he knew what it felt like to care, to feel honeyed warmth in his chest, he hated her for giving it and taking it away.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, eyes wide in anger, he stepped out of his car, slamming the door behind him and walked to her door. It was late, so he was surprised when she didn’t immediately open the door after the first bout of frantic knocks. He knocked again and again before banging the side of his fist against it, shaking the door in its frame. He heard the faint sound of bare feet rushing on hard floors, he could feel her presence on the other side of the door, the barely-there clink of metal.

“Who’s there?” came her muffled voice, strong and assertive.

“It’s me,” he responded, flat and neutral. There was silence, a moment of nothing but a soft breeze, before the door opened slowly. His jaw clenched at the site, despised by how her oversized shirt and shorts were so endearing to him. The contrast of black against the tanned skin of her thigh sent a thrill down his spine; a thrill of the danger of it in her presence, followed by the heavy weight of cold acknowledgement at the implication of it. The fact she hadn’t put it down at the sound of his voice. Why should she, now than she knew?

She looked him in the eyes, hers wide and surprised, before looking down at the gun in her hand. She tilted it a little, trigger finger laying along the slide, only out of the trigger well because she was trained and knew to only put it there when she intended to shoot. She didn’t raise the gun, but she didn’t put it down either, not even after sighing at his presence. It was then that her gaze slid indifferently from his face and down to his chest, his stomach, where evidence of something sinister was on display.

“What did you do?” she asked, and the question was like a punch to his gut. Of course she would think _he_ did something, the being with bullet holes in his expensive clothes. Not like anything could ever happen _to_ him; not evil incarnate, not the monster from Below. It didn’t matter that it was true, that he had done something. His actions were the effect to a cause; one that she was privy to, one that she saw eat at him before she turned away from him. Again.

“Just a bit of work,” he offered bitterly, stopping the scoff before it could leave his lips, before it could show how much it hurt. She didn’t believe him, that much was certain, but the slight shift in her stance, widening her door, was enough of an unwise invitation as any. After all, he never claimed to be a wisdom-giver, handing-out unwanted advice through the mouths and writings of mortal men. That one someone else’s power-play.

“What does _that_ mean?” she questioned, and he could hear the annoyance in her tone. The tone she used when she didn’t believe him, and knew she wouldn’t get a straight answer. He always told the truth, even if it was the watered-down, diet version of it. The devil truly was in the details, he wouldn’t deny that. One phrase he did feel adequately used his namesake. He walked past her, hearing the sound of the door closing, at locking, behind him.

“Exactly what I said,” Lucifer retorted, turning around to glare at her. It was all he could do at that point. Glare, lest he get lost in those eyes. Let himself drown in the cool blue, gasping for air as he forgot all the wrong she had done, the ways she had hurt him, finally losing himself to the black depths of comfortable numbness. “Just some work. These,” he said, waving a hand across his torso, circling the holes made in fragile material covering immortal flesh. “Simply an occupational hazard.” If this had been last year, he would have smiled, smirked even, but it wasn’t last year, and they were well passed sarcastic remarks made in jest.

Chloe stood as far from him as she could, still completely unable to remain close to him since she saw his face. Since _she_ felt like she had been lied to all this time. Which was rich. It was just another nail in Lucifer’s loathsome coffin, the one Chloe and God shared the duty in making. “What am I supposed to do with that, Lucifer?”

“You think I’m here for your opinion?” he asked, raising his eyebrows along with the volume of his voice. He schooled himself with that, looking around the place with a sour taste of indignation on his tongue. “Beatrice here?”

That threw her off. His question about Trixie. Apparently getting visual confirmation that he was the Devil, even after he had risked his life for her, Chloe still thought he was incapable of caring. “No,” she finally answered, her brows tugging together, the grip on her firearm tighter. Lucifer looked down at in, the way it was bulky and dark in her delicate, strong grasp. She had killed with that, she could kill him with that. He wouldn’t ponder why he wanted to see the latter go through.

It was strange to feel both relief and dread at the same time. He had hoped the child wouldn’t be here; she didn’t deserve to hear what Lucifer so desperately wanted to scream, but her not being here meant he had no excuse to back out. Backing out would be cowardly at that point, and Chloe didn’t need another flaw to spit back at him. Her repertoire was full enough as it was.

“What are you here for, then?” Her voice was a bit softer that time, and if Lucifer had had an ounce of hope left in his everlasting soul, he would have thought that to be an olive branch, but he didn’t have hope. He was a justified cynic, down to his very rotten core.

“To talk,” he answered, pushing his hands into the slacks of his pockets, to keep from fidgeting, to keep from showing his weakness around her. Chloe’s shoulders tensed as she opened her mouth, but he quickly pulled one hand out of its safety and held it up, effectively stopping her. “Not to talk, to speak.” With that her eyebrows rose incredulously, like she couldn’t believe he would silence her, like she couldn’t believe she wouldn’t be given the floor, him bowing down to her moral high-ground. “Do you blame me?”

There was a moment of confusion, and he really couldn’t blame her for that. There was plenty she could blame him for; wrong or right. “Do I blame you for what?” Her voice was so cold when she spoke, and that was really all the answer he needed. She was looking at him, her gaze hard, but not uncaring, but she had no intention of trying to make him feel better about anything.

“For what happened earlier. The rookie dying. Julian escaping,” he listed off, and even saying the events made his anger boil. He hated himself for letting that fool get away. For listening to Chloe, for believing that he could be anything other than a monster. For being told that the monstrous side of him didn’t have to be who he was. He could be the angel he once was. He hated that he had to choose which one; hated that being both somehow made him more monster than angel. “Anything and everything?” he added, his voice turning to gravel. “Take your pick.”

She rolled her eyes. A quirk he used to be fond of, now it just sent fire through his veins. It was a mockery of him, when it wasn’t done in spite of his antics, but to him because of his questions. “You came here, in the middle of the night, to ask me if I blame you?” She said it more like a statement, more like she was trying to make sense of it in her head. For a brief moment Lucifer felt the way she was clearly wanting him to: stupid, childish, a burden. Those feelings quickly washed away; hate tended to do that; take over everything else, let it all succumb to the fire that was equal parts wrath and pain. He was suddenly unsure of why he even came. Initially it was to yell, to scream, maybe scare her a little. Make her feel how he had to feel after killing Pierce. Make her see what’s it’s like to have your darkest, most vulnerable parts exposed, only to be left reeling in the terror of it.

“Daniel blames me,” Lucifer said, and if he could punch himself he would have. He sounded pathetic, but only Chloe could do this to him, turn him into a beaten dog, tail between its legs, looking for just an ounce of affection from the one who hurt them. “Curious if you do too.”

She watched him for more than a minute, considering him, taking in everything. He knew the excuse of “work” wouldn’t satisfy her in terms of his appearance, but he hoped for some sort of answer from her. Specifically an answer he knew he wouldn’t get. “I don’t know,” she finally said, swallowing hard. “You could have stopped him, but you didn’t.”

He knew that. Of course he did, but the sting of her words wasn’t lessened by that knowledge. He felt his eyes grow wet, but he wouldn’t allow anything to come of it. He stood taller, chest pushing out just a bit more. He took a single step towards her, and she took a half-step back, tightening her grip on the gun, eyes widening just lightly. He schooled a smirk that tried to form on his lips for that. “I remember you saying I could do the right thing. That I didn’t have to be ‘the bad guy’. That _your_ fucking justice would win if I followed your rules.” He was angry, there was no hiding that now. He took another step forward, and then another. Chloe’s back was dangerously close to the wall, and he could see that realization in her eyes; much like when prey is cornered by an apex predator.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, voice becoming louder and louder. “You don’t get to pick and choose when _my ways_ are convenient for you. That’s not how it works, Detective!” It was the first time he had addressed her by the name he gave her, her title. Her back hit the wall and he continued to crowd into her space. He could see the anxiety in her features, the way her breath quickened, her heart thundering in her chest. He stepped forward until he had to put her feet between his, until she had to look straight up at him, until he could feel her worried breath through the torn material of his shirt. “Why is it that humans think they can use me to fill in the gaps of their own wrongdoings? Why is it that you think you can determine when my judgments are warranted and when they are not? Who gives _you_ that authority?” He said it softly, no longer needing to speak loud for her to hear. The desired effect worked; the feint of a calm, collected devil.

“I have the authority _here_ , on Earth. You don’t.” He had to give it to her, she had bigger balls than most of the men he came across, both in Hell and on Earth.

“I don’t need any _authority_ ,” he replied, disdain coloring his words at the implication. “I can do whatever I want. I _choose_ to follow most of the rules. Those that don’t follow them get the appropriate punishment. What they deserve.” There was silence after that, moments where she couldn’t look him in the eyes, and he was grateful for that. He knew he wouldn’t survive the brunt of her glare on him for much longer than she was willing to endure.

“You don’t get to do the judging, Lucifer, in this world or any other.” She looked at him hard, glaring into his eyes with righteous indignation..

He laughed; a true, genuine laugh that turned dark and dangerous. He looked down at her with mirth in his eyes, raising an arm, watching her flinch, and bracing a hand above her head, cornering three out of four sides of her frame. “ _Oh,_ someone’s been reading her Bible,” he drawled, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. He leaned his head down, his mouth getting closer to her face, and she turned her head to the side to avoid his gaze. “Do you really think he threw me down there and I just, what, listened to him?” He chuckled when he watched the muscles in her jaw twitch, the way her eyes squeezed shut, like she was truly unprepared for that response. He had struck a chord, that much was certain, he just had no idea which one. That didn’t matter, she had played her like a goddamn hark, numerous chords, endless possibilities of strings to pick at. “But, you’re right, I don’t choose who goes to Hell, but I can see the ones who are well on their way. So what if I decide to make the remainder of their breathing days a _literal_ living Hell? Do you think I give a fuck if _He_ is okay with that?”

It was Chloe’s turn to smirk, apparently. She didn’t laugh, but the corners of her mouth turned up, but there was something sinister swimming in the blue of her eyes that gave her the ability to look directly at him and feel empowered. “You know what you sound like?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, indifferently, as if she were talking to a suspect in interrogation. He raised an eyebrow, showing his interest, no matter how masochistic it was, in whatever she was about to say. “You sound like a spoiled brat, mad that Daddy wouldn’t give you a toy you wanted. Having everything and still wanting more.”

There was an obvious shift in the room. Suddenly, the air felt heavier, less oxygenated, caustic. The lights may have dimmed, or it might have been the blood beating behind Lucifer’s eyes, causing pressure, blurring his vision of anything other than the human in front of him. The atmospheric difference only seemed to be affecting him; Chloe was breathing just fine, if not a little deeper, a little quicker, and it didn’t seem to be burning her lungs the way it was burning his. He realized far too slowly that he was the change in the room: not yet monster, more simmering beast beneath flesh, quickly becoming too small to contain him. Out of his peripheral, he could see the skin on his hand flash, a lightening-shaped burst of red and white, come and gone just as fast, that hinted towards the _thing_ underneath.

He stood up straighter, giving more room for the rage and hate to grow, lifting his chin just the slightest so he had to point his eyes down to look at her. He wished he felt nothing for her then, wished it beyond an immeasurable dream; would gladly give up what it had felt like to care for someone so deeply, just so he wouldn’t have to feel the stab of betrayal over and over. He’d suffered worse, he tried to tell himself, the little angel on his shoulder, whispering into his ear. The devil on the other laughed, low and haunting, and cheered for punishment. The voices in his head continued to chant and plead their dichotomous arguments, and he listened to both at the same time, all while staring at Chloe, watching as her features went from hard to a hidden anxious in a breath.

The clink of metal brought his mind out of the holy war screaming between his ears, and he blinked down to where Chloe’s hand was white-knuckling the gun, her pointer finger slid down to the outside of the trigger well, closer to ready to pull, but not quite there. He hummed quietly at that before dragging his gaze back to her eyes, he licked his lips and put his other hand on the wall bracketing her head. Four sides cornered, nowhere to run. She clenched her jaw, and he wasn’t sure if it was to stave off the chattering of teeth, or to hold her tongue, to not dig further into a hole.

“Listen very closely, Detective,” he started, honestly impressed with himself for how controlled his voice was, even as the beast was clawing at his throat, digging nails into vocal chords to take over. “You cannot fathom what I had, what my life was like. Can’t even begin to comprehend being a divine creation whose sole purpose was to serve his creator, his _Father_ , without question.” His struggle with the beast inside started to falter, and there were a few pitches in his words that deepened to an inhuman level, and he could tell the Detective noticed it. “Nothing but blind devotion; free will wasn’t even a concept for us! That isn’t living, and it is definitely not how anyone, man or angel, should have to exist.” He could hear that he was speaking loud again, unnecessarily with their lack of distance, but his voice boomed in the space between them, heat rising off his skin, distorting the air around him.

Chloe swallowed thickly, something changing within her, too, on a more human scale, a more acceptable one. “Is that why you did it?” she asked, and there was an edge to her tone that suggested ridicule. “All you wanted was to be a real boy? Is that it? How many whores did you have to fuck before you felt real?”

Lucifer huffed, loudly, a quick exhalation of all the air in his burning lungs, at the sheer gall of Chloe’s words. The _nerve_ of that woman. He was impressed, painfully so; not many could look him in the eyes and say something that insulting, knowing what he was. A lesser Devil would have lashed out immediately, a lesser being would have gone straight to scorn, but Lucifer was no lesser Devil, and he felt right at home being on the receiving end of spiteful words. “Just the one, as you might recall from that fairytale _rag_ you’re so recently fond of. You know, where the Hero,” he said, point up towards the ceiling. “Defeats the Big Bad,” he continued, pointing to himself, condescension thick in his mouth. “And everyone lives happily ever after under His eternal, everlasting Light.” He raised his eyebrows, looking for any indication that she was following him. She didn’t need to give one; he knew she was a smart woman. She understood him _just_ fine.

“As you may also know, she’s back at my penthouse waiting.” He waited, watching as the thought of that mingled in her thoughts, the smallest touch of _hurt_ coming through her eyes in the form of a lower-lid twitch. That miniscule tell made one side of his mouth turn up in a small smile. “Even after 2,000 plus years, she came back for more. Left _Heaven_ , for more of me.” He crowded her space even more, until his hips were brushing along her stomach, the side of her gun touching his leg, her warm breath cool against his heated body.

“Yet, you’re here with me,” she countered, voice quiet, stunned but not defeated, buying time to grow stronger, fight back with a vengeance. 

“Yes,” he agreed, venomous, pressing himself more firmly to her body, feeling her barely-there resistance to it, the weak attempt at a struggle. “To do my _God-given right_ , my true purpose, Chloe,” and the sound of her name made her stand a little taller, eyes go wider, stare more attentive. Just as he’d hoped. “Execute a punishment.”

She inhaled sharply at his persistent presence, and he could only assume she was grateful for the height difference; that she didn’t have to turn her head, forfeit her strong stance, to keep her face away from his. “You’ve always said you didn’t do the punishing,” she reminded him, yet, somehow it sounded like more an accusation, like it was another one of his lies in her mind.

“Come now, Detective,” he quipped, drawing his brows together, mocking her with faux disbelief. “You know I’d make an exception for you.” It was ominous, as intended, and as the words soaked cold into her ears, into her soul, he watched a sea of emotions swim through her eyes. They were all ones he knew too well, all ones he was feeling, too. “In true _Lucifer_ fashion, let’s make a deal, Detective,” he offered, letting his mind switch to the carnal side of things, dipping a foot into the sins-of-the-flesh pool, slowly leaving the hellfire bath he had been soaking in, pruned and scalded. She said nothing, made no move to try and run away, didn’t shake with fear, didn’t close her eyes and pray for it all to end. She just stood there, eyes darkening beneath her own anger, her own hate, refusing to give his words the dignity of an answer.

Lucifer waited, of course he did. Counted the seconds as they turned into minutes, still no response came, no act to escape. He sighed, a bothered sort of sound, as if she had been wasting his time, like she wouldn’t acknowledge there was no other way the night would go. “If you’re wet right now,” he said, eyeing down her entire body, lingering at the space his hips were touching her torso, acting as if he could see through their bodies, see under her clothes to what he was wanting. “I fuck you into the ground. If you’re not, I leave. For good,” he finished, a dangerous smirk on his plush lips, an eyebrow raised in a question awaiting response. “How does that sound, hm?”

Her eyes widened, genuinely surprised by his offer. She hadn’t expected him to go there, hadn’t expected a final play into getting into her pants. One final move to get a taste of that forbidden fruit she endlessly denied him. Only him. Cain got to taste that fruit, let the juices fill his mouth, trickle down his chin, fill his belly in a way that made Lucifer’s starving stomach clench. The first murderer was good enough for that, but he wasn’t; deep down he knew it, felt it strongly, but he wasn’t sure why she felt that way. Wasn’t sure what he had done, other than being the Devil, that made her deny him such a treasure. Had the ounce of his Father’s touch on her rendered him revolting, even before his true nature had been displayed? All questions that led to the same response: he wasn’t good enough, and he never would be.

“Who’s going to check? You or me?” he asked, pulling himself from the downward spiral of self-pity he was beginning to wind down. He plastered on his quintessential smirk, looking down at her through his lower lashes, watching as shock and anger drowned in her blue eyes, reaching out for something, only to fall under again and again. “Oh, looks like your good hand is a little occupied,” Lucifer acknowledged, glancing down to the pistol in her right hand. “Guess that leaves me.” He shrugged, as if the task was nothing to him; as if he was checking the ripeness of a watermelon before buying it; just a small touch to determine if it was ready or not. Staring right into her eyes, ones that never shied away as he spoke, as he licked his lips and slid a hand down the way towards her center. He could hear he pulse, a quickened beat, he could feel the lack of air between them as she held her breath, but she held her jaw firm, unflinching, even when his fingertips made contact against the cloth on her hip.

He hesitated, a fraction of a second, as soon as his fingertips touched her, feeling for a recoil, but she didn’t move a muscle. She stared up at him defiantly, like she already knew the answer, as his deft fingers slid under the hem of her shirt, making contact with goose-bumped flesh, dipping beneath the waist of her shorts. He desperately hoped they thought the same answer, were under the same conclusion. He’d find out soon enough, inhaling shakily as his fingers moved under the band of her underwear, towards their destination. The first trace of it, the moment he was met with soft, wet skin, he exhaled the breath he had been holding, hoping to feel exactly that or asphyxiate himself. He reigned in his excitement, his utter joy in feeling exactly what he wanted, before tsking at her, shaking his head in a way that screamed _I fucking knew it._ He smirked down at her arrogantly, fingers gliding through smooth, silky folds of flesh, slick with slippery, heady arousal, knuckles brushing against the damp fabric of her underwear. Soaked through, warm from her heat.

He composed himself, schooling his features, keeping them arrogant and unimpressed. Expectant, even though he was far from it. “My, my, what have we here?” he asked, patronizing and so full of superiority. He swore he could see the shame glisten in her eyes, the way her jaw grit into itself, her refusal to look him in the eyes. Her sharp inhale through her nose was the only way she acknowledged what was going on. Her pure disdain towards herself, the utter disappointment that her body betrayed her put a dangerous smirk on Lucifer’s lips. He knew it, he fucking knew it. He’d let himself shower in the dirty pride of her arousal; knowing he got her there, his physicality, everything he could emanate from his form, not even an ounce of nicety, got her fucking _drenched._

He kept his fingers where they were, soaking in all the evidence needed to enact the deal. He moved them around, experimentally, just mapping out the lay of the land, feeling where another part of him was going to go. Finally. After reveling in his victory, Lucifer pulled his hand out of her underwear and shorts, choosing to ignore the breath of air Chloe released when he was free of her clothes. She turned her gaze back to his, following the path of his hand as he brought those fingers up to his lips, obscenely licking a long stripe up the middle digit. Her mouth fell open in a mix of disgust and something akin to hunger. He moaned at the taste, keeping his eyes trained on her face, swirling the flavor of tangy-sweetness on his tongue, like mango dipped in honey.

With inhuman speed, Lucifer reached forward with his left hand, wrapping it around Chloe’s throat, plastering the back of her head to the wall, pinning her by the neck. She let out a startled gasp, her left hand immediately lifting to wrap around his wrist, just squeezing, not pushing. Licking his lips, almost bereft to remove the taste of her from his mouth, he brought his still-wet fingers to her lips, tracing the plush outline before prying them past the seam. She kept her teeth clenched, at first, only opening when Lucifer’s grip tightened just enough around her throat, and he gave her the most put-out, irritated looks. A look that screamed _don’t make this difficult on yourself._ She blinked, an exaggeratedly long motion, before reluctantly opening her mouth for his fingers, tasting herself on his flesh and hating it. He grinned in satisfaction; not only did she have to feel his victory, but she also had to taste it.

“Remind me, what does _this_ mean again?” he asked, wiggling his fingers for her to know what he meant by _this._ The fingers coated in her arousal, the ones that tell her exactly what was going to happen. He waited a beat, and when she made no move, keeping the writhing muscle of her tongue as still as possible against the pads of his fingers (an impressive feat), he sighed forlornly, pulling them out and wiping them off on her shirt.

“Fuck you,” she said quietly, taking her hand off of his wrist to wipe at her mouth where saliva had trailed at the corners.

“No, fuck you, Chloe,” he countered, crowding into her space, moving his hand from her throat up to her jaw, squeezing roughly, shaking enough to grab her attention. He tiled her chin directly up so he wouldn’t have to lean down as far to bring his face close to hers. Their mouths were barely an inch apart, and they breathed oppositely, inhaling and exhaling the same energy that was mounting between them. “And that’s _exactly_ what I’m going to do.” He shoved his mouth to hers, pressing their lips together, teeth clacking painfully in what could only be compared to two wolves biting at each other’s snouts: snapping and wet. It wasn’t their first kiss, but it was clear that this one held more passion than the others, even if that passion was fueled by animosity and betrayal. He pulled back enough to take the edge off, enough to savor it for a second before he never did it again. The movement gave Chloe enough distance to bite at his lip, pinching the skin hard, piercing though, a short burst of blood filling the space between their mouths. Then he felt the cool weight of a barrel against his temple; solid, hollow, ready to wreak havoc, much like he was.

Lucifer groaned, an involuntary noise pulled from him, as he squeezed her jaw harder, forcing her mouth open, eyes slamming shut in a wince. He backed away and he could see his own blood on her lips, staining her teeth, and he could feel the hot pulse of his heart throbbing in his lip, wet and stinging. The pistol was still pressed against his head, much lighter now, as if she realized what she had done but refused to back-out, refused to show him she regretted the choice. Because, _oh,_ what a choice it was to press a gun to his head when she knew she could end him.

She was afraid, he could see it in her eyes, and whether she was afraid of herself or him he was unsure of. He believed it to be a combination of both; and the fact that she could recognize her willingness to cause destruction as much as his made everything sweeter. A little slice of equality, he thought, watching her shake with the realization that she could hold a gun to his head, that she even considered about pulling the trigger. It was something that haunted Lucifer every day of his immortal existence. He could do so much, he could end so many lives, half the time he wanted to, and he hated that about himself. Hated that one rule never seemed to be able to leave his conscious, that one rule could never be reasoned out of his mind. He hated that he held on to one of his Father’s rules like a lifeline, like it was the last string of morality keeping him from going completely under, being swallowed into the black abyss of malevolence. There were days he imagined making the whole world burn as he did, but those were outweighed by the remainder of days and nights he spent wishing he could burn just one last time. Serve himself up, the antithesis of their beloved Jesus, crucified on a flaming cross, inverted, sent back to eternal damnation where he belonged. Where he deserved to be.

He kept the hand around her jaw clenched tight, letting the other drop to her hip, slipping beneath her barely-there shorts and pushing them down her thighs with her underwear. They pooled around her ankles, her large shirt just barely covering the sex between her thighs, and he loved it like that. Even with the anger seething in her eyes, her nipples were hard beneath the thin fabric, and it took every ounce of his restraint to not bend down and suck them through her shirt, bite them, flick his tongue over the sensitive nub. He wasn’t afforded that here, that much was certain; there was no kindness between them, only a need so deep and desperate neither was willing to accept it wasn’t right. They were going to lose each other, and doing so without a taste seemed like the grandest sin of all.

Getting lost in the way her shirt tented around her nipples, how he could see the subtle darkness, a dusty rose, contrasting against her skin, he hadn’t noticed Chloe’s free hand shooting forward towards his belt. He let her struggle with the buckle, a task not intended for one hand, and he looked down at her, chin tilted up, considering how the next part was going to play out. He didn’t think he could look at her when he did it, not directly, at least. He wanted to see it, had dreamed of seeing her face when he finally slid into her, but it was never like this. He never thought it would happen after harsh words, after she left. After he was revealed for the monster he was. He never imagined it, and he was pathetic when it came to her. He wanted to see, but couldn’t bring himself to get inside her, staring down at a face that hated him for it, seeing the anguish in his own eyes reflected in hers. A quick turn of his head revealed his saving grace, the thing that would give him exactly what he wanted while providing the safety of indirect watching. The mirror was perfect, he could slide home, watch her face, all without the suffocating weight of her eyes on him. Looking through the glass was easy, it wasn’t real. Simply a reproduction, a mirror-image, and it could hide his weakness just fine.

He batted her hand away when her frustration grew evident, kicking at her ankles until she stepped free of the confines of her shorts and sodden underwear. He roughly pulled her forward by his grip on her jaw, dropping the hand lower to lead her by the nape of her neck. His other hand wrapped around her bicep, putting enough pressure to assure she would go where he directed her. She did, and she stumbled, but his hold on her kept her upright. He made it to his destination, the mirror on the wall by the front door, the half-table beneath it, just enough space to hold her keys and bag. She struggled against him, but he pressed his frame along her back, her delicate hips digging into the table, their faces visible in the mirror’s reflection.

It was better, so much better, that veil of security that he didn’t have to face her while he watched her. The creep in the shadows he could be, up close and feeling, the transparent blanket he could hide behind in the shape of an embossed rectangle on the wall. Her eyes were wide again, mouth clenched tight. She was rigid in his hands, ready for a fight, but that wasn’t what he was there for. He was there to make her know, he was there to get his penance from her. He was there to be the Devil, and take what he wanted. He watched her features, softening from uncertainty to disdain, and he took the opportunity to release her arm and finish the hack-job she had made of his belt.

He did so without looking down, choosing to stare at her though the mirror, watching her throat work when she swallowed at the sound of the metal clinking undone. Watching as her eyes bore holes into his mouth, where she was looking. That wouldn’t do. While popping open the button and lowering the zipper, Lucifer’s other hand moved from her nape to her jaw again, palm cupping her chin, fingers digging into the soft hollows of her cheeks. “Look at me,” he ordered lowly, sighing when his aching erection sprung free and smacked against her lower back. She jumped at the sensation, lips curling up in a snarl in his hold, her eyes turning down, looking everywhere but at him. “Look. At. Me,” he demanded again, shaking her lightly, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. When she still refused to meet his gaze in the mirror, he shook her again, fingers digging into her cheeks as he pried her head up. Gritting her teeth, an almost inaudible growl rumbled in her chest as she finally looked up at him in the mirror, breathing hard and fast. Fuming. “I bet you looked at him,” he started, tilting his head, soaking in the vision she truly was. Nipples startling hard under her shirt, legs shaking, the small triangle of space between her thighs wet as he slid his cock into it. He shuddered as she shook, a pitiful attempt to move away from his dick between her thighs.

“I bet you looked Cain right in his eyes when he fucked you.” A statement, again. He knew the answer, so did she, there wasn’t a question needed to be asked there. “Well, Pierce, as you knew him.” Her eyes darkened, he hit another nerve, another strike to her barely-held-together resolve. She would snap like he had, he could see it, and he wanted it. He wanted her just as mad, just as pained Tell me, how does it feel knowing you had the first murderer inside you? The man that birthed the violence you fight against every day?” He started rutting against her, lightly, barely detectable, but the slight friction of her skin against his cock set his skin alight. It changed him, the sensation, made him want to tear into the soft flesh, get his fill of it, make himself feel that good all the time. The smell, the feel, the sounds of her were intoxicating; a horrible addiction he couldn’t protect himself from, something that made him need and want enough to end the world just to keep feeling it.

“And you let me. How fucked up is that?” She glared at him, having the audacity to look hurt. Like he hadn’t done everything other than resort to violence to stop her.

Lucifer’s face fell slack, losing the smug tilt to his lips, the hungry gleam in his eyes. “I told you, _in detail_ , why you couldn’t trust Pierce.”

“Just like you had told me about who you were. You knew how fucking ridiculous it sounded, and you were just too much of a bitch to actually show me.” She said it was such vindication, because she was right. He always knew she didn’t believe him, never would without proof, and he never gave her any. Why would telling her Pierce was actually Cain be any different? It wouldn’t be. He had known that. It hurt, it really did; a bitter, ashy residue sitting on his tongue, filling his senses, further enabling him to hate himself.

She had the nerve to smile at his silence, at the way his eyes widened and his jaw slacked, how utterly lost and found-out he felt. It was fine, he was the expert at burying every ounce of self-loathing deep into darkest corners of his psyche, letting his wrath consume him, fuel him, ignite the fires within.

“You believe me now, though,” he stated, voice deep and guttural, brown eyes holding her gaze in the mirror, cock sliding through the mess of arousal between her thighs, so fucking close to where he wanted to shove himself inside of, fill it up, claim it, _own_ it. Have all of her; something he refused to let himself admit. “You know who he was now. You know what I am, as well.”

“He was still better than you.” The words hacked into him. Not like the clean knife-slice of her earlier insults, not like the expected searing heat he had come to expect of their words to each other. No, those words had hit him like an axe, slamming into him, blade finding the soft spots amongst bones, cracking and cutting, burying itself deep. Pulling it out was certain death, leaving it in to finish the battle was the only call; another fact to shove into those deep, dark corners. _He was better_. Her word-axe cut something vital, the last string of his resolve, the last inkling of humanity he was holding on to, to keep himself in check. That was gone, and it frightened even him to be unsure of when he could get that back.

It happened before he even knew it, his vision going red, like it always did when his eyes turned to crimson pits of embers. It burned, a dull heat warming his skull, flooding his veins of a righteous fire born from the depths of Hell, strengthened to an ancient kingdom he was sole ruler of. The instinctual fear in her eyes was a relief, the edge he had been looking for, something to dangle in front of her. The _fear me_ he never expected to have to use, to want to use. But damn, if that woman didn’t make him feel _everything_ so fucking much. He was a poorly-built canon, and Chloe was the fodder, making it easy to blow up and explode out, destroy himself and everything else in room. It was within that same breath that his fist went through the mirror, through the backing, through the wall behind it. He felt her startled jump, was impressed by her small gasp, and heard the tinkling sounds of broken glass hitting the floor, crunching in his skin.

The pain was shocking in itself. It always was to him; being something that didn’t ever feel anything like it away from her. The fact that his blood ran hot down his hand, the fact that it was outside of him at all, made the spot where his heart used to be clench. Made it twist and ache, an empty crevice contracting on itself just to continue to hurt when the damage was already done. She made him feel everything, and he hated it. He hated that the pain was a comfort, letting him feel real in the warm blanket of reality. He hated that the pain meant he was vulnerable, because she held his poor excuse for a heart in her hand. Hated it because she had crushed it, thin fingers sinking into bleeding muscle and tissue, halting the pump, taking his breath, and stomping on it before walking away. The final blow that had started it all, the downward spiral into madness

How could she do it, he wondered, watching blood flow in thick rivulets down his wrist. How could someone so stunning, glowing with divine light not meant for this world, crush the last bit of hope from him, take her last bite of his beating vessel, pull her teeth from him, lips red and glistening, and look even more beautiful because of it? It was because she could. Unlike Eve, she looked temptation and seduction right in the eyes, and rejected him. In the end, He couldn’t blame her, and deep down, the part he tried to ignore, he knew exactly why she did it, and agreed.

It answered the unspoken question, the unspoken reason for everything that had ever happened to him. He truly was the monster he was made out to be. He was exactly the rebellious filth that dared question the Almighty Creator of all Creation. He dared think he deserved anything for the work he had done. Lighting the stars in a galaxy built by someone else was nothing more than stringing up lights in a room decorated by another. Nothing more than adding varnish to an already completed painting. He was nothing, no matter how he fought to argue that point. The King of Hell was no title, it was a sentence; it wasn’t something to use to control, it was there to ensure he knew his place. Remain the warden of misery his own hell was meant to be. It hurt, more than he could have imagined, to realize he despised himself just as much as all the byproducts of creation did.

And fuck them for it. Fuck them all for it. He could do that, through her. He could fuck her with all the wrath he held in his frame, use her as the humans’ Messiah for the Devil, their Pontius Pilate, their own personal Judas. She could wear their sins, look upon him with disgust, hatred, judgment, and he could fuck all of that until his bones felt weak from it. Until his body felt used and drained, until she, the proxy of the people, felt damnation in the land of the living.

“ _Cain,_ ” he growled, pulling his hand from the wreckage of glass and dry-wall, blood dripping rapidly from his slowly loosening fist, landing on the table, running down his forearm, falling on her clothed breasts as he brought his hand closer to her face. “Was the Sinnerman. Cain had killed _countless_ numbers of people throughout his immortal life on Earth. He _was not_ better than me.” Lucifer grimaced at his hand, the appendage shaking from the damage, shards of glass glittering in the dim light, another problem they’ll continue to ignore for the night. The bottom corner of the mirror remained on the wall, cracked, but he could see her face clear enough. Even through the jagged, distorted glass she looked horrified, simmering with fury, bottom lip trembling.

“What about you, Lucifer?” she bit out through clenched teeth, voice shaking and thick with unshed tears, wracking at her nerves, the last shred of tenacity she dared to cling to. “How many people have you killed in the fucking _eternity_ you’ve existed?!” It was meant to be insulting, he knew that. It was meant to be a jab to the immortality he never proved, meant to hint towards the fact he didn’t have a life, he had an _existence_. He wasn’t human, like her, or even Cain. Cain had been a human, at least, regardless of his immortality.

Chloe chanced a glance at Lucifer’s bleeding hand, she swallowed before looking back at him in the broken mirror. For a moment he saw the briefest glimpse of concern, but it lasted only a blink of time before other emotions washed back over her, like a wave at the beach, filling in holes in wet sand, erasing their existence. It stung, much worse than his hand; that had been reduced to a dull throbbing with streams of magma dripping down his wrist. He had no idea if it were life-threatening, but he knew what it felt like to bleed-out, and he was nowhere _near_ that sensation. It didn’t matter, as soon as he left, got far enough away from her, he would start to heal, regenerate, like it never happened.

“The only lives I’ve ever ended have been for you,” Lucifer growled near her ear, looking at the side of her face directly, not needing the safety of the mirror for what he had to say. “My own brother, for you! Cain? For you!” he yelled, and she bent her neck to try to get her ear away from his booming voice. “You’ve forced me to do things I never would have done! I hadn’t crossed that line until _you_.” An accusation, one he hadn’t pieced together until then. The things that made him a monster had all been for Chloe. His aggression with suspects was to help her, his omissions had been to protect her and everyone in their circle. He wasn’t nearly the beast he was now before her… she made him this way.

“What brother?” she demanded, like he was just making things up, adding to his list of not-really-lies-not-quite-truths. “I didn’t make you do anything!” She turned her head to look directly at him, not needing the security of the mirror, not like she ever needed it. Their faces were so close, breath puffing out and ghosting their features, eyelashes fluttering from it. He could just lean in and take her mouth again; he could just shove his tongue past her teeth, lick into that warmth, taste something sweet and divine, a nostalgic flavor that brought more bad memories than good. It was physically painful to not dive into her mouth, to not suck down every bit of what made her _Chloe_ , grasp her throat just a little too tight, make her just as breathless as she made him.

He lowered his bleeding hand to the small table, sweeping off bits of broken mirror and flakes of drywall, smearing blood, burying glass into his flesh even more. The scraping sound of the imbedded glass against the surface was unsettling, but not as much as her words had been. He’d take death by a thousand lashes over hearing her say any of that ever again. When the surface felt sufficiently free of shards and chunks, he spun her around, pushing against the lower portion of her throat, palm near her chest, until he could lift her up a few inches, her firm ass resting on the edge of the table, legs splayed for him to stand between. They both ignored his thoughtful gesture, removing glass to keep her from being harmed, and he was supremely grateful she didn’t add that to a list of things to beat him down about. Because she could. She could berate him for it, call him a bitch for it in this hate-filled night, and he would do it over and over again. Not let anything harm her, touch her, break her, but him.

It was the perfect position; his naked cock rested against the crease of her thigh, where her long legs met her torso, right next to where he could move a few inches, sink right in. It was a mouthwatering picture: thick cock, leaking, veiny and outrageously hard, with her delicate-looking sex glistening and pink. He wanted, he wanted more than anything, and by the evidence of her arousal and quaking thighs, she wanted, too. So much had been said already, and he still felt like they weren’t finished with each other yet. Not finished with admitting all the horrible things they felt, all the things that only people like them could feel towards another. All the things you told yourself at night to dissuade your soul into falling deeper into the other’s trap. It was too late for him, but hopefully not for her. Hopefully he could lift her out of his crater, create a step with his bleeding and broken body, let her climb out to freedom on the back of a corpse she was leaving behind.

“I’ve stained my hands with the blood of angels and humans for you,” he started, adjusting his grip to cover the expanse of her throat looking up at him gave. “I’ve bled for you, died for you, and you never looked at me as anything more than a delusional, fucked-up excuse for a man.” He stepped closer to her, groin flush with hers, her heels hooking around the backs of his thighs, as if for nothing more than convenience. He stared down at her, struggling to keep himself from just slamming into her; it would be easy, the surface of the table left tacky by sheer layers of drying blood, and he would be able to keep her exactly where he needed her to be.

“You’re not even a man,” she said gently, far too softly for the punch of the words that flew from her mouth. Another fear uncovered that night for him, something he hated to dwell on because it was true, and was something he would never get. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, eyes manic, still burning red and inhuman. “I’m so much more than that.” The pride he used as a glorified shield covered him, cloaking him from any more axes or daggers she could spit his way. Shielding him from the hurt only she could inflict; the inside kind of hurt, the kind that really stuck and never healed right. The kind that left his insides deformed and gruesome, more so than the monster lurking under his skin, waiting to be set free.

It wasn’t difficult to revise the position off his hips, use his slashed hand just enough to hold his length steady as he fucked himself into her; tight, wet heat swallowing him whole. It was right, so fucking right, even with the vicious words and heated glances. It was _perfect_. She released a choked-out whimper when he bottomed-out, carving out a space for himself inside her, body opening up and taking him in like it was meant to do. Lucifer groaned, deep and breathy, eyes closing for a second as he reveled in the sensation; a tingling relief, an anticipatory contraction of muscle that held the promise of so much more, so much better. Chloe gripped the edge of the small table with her free hand, keeping herself as steady as possible, the other pressed the barrel of the gun against Lucifer’s ribs, a transverse, point-blank shot lined up to hit his heart.

He expected a bit of a fight, but all he felt was her legs tightening around his hips, her walls clenching around his cock, her jaw jutted and mouth open. It was pure rapture, what they were feeling, floating along a sea of painful uncertainty, judgment, and loathsome unacceptance. It shouldn’t have been as momentous as it was, but it was an otherworldly experience, and he knew all about other worlds and realities. This, with her, as fucked-up as it was, topped the cake. He could see everything her shirt didn’t cover, the material sheer enough to see her still erect nipples straining, and he watched his cock disappear and reappear again, shining and blanched from the squeeze. There was a little blood towards the base of his cock from where he touched it with his injured hand, and he watched as it slowly washed away within her heat; another part of him for her to take.

“You’re exactly how the world sees you, you know?” she bit out after she had adjusted to the thick girth of the intrusion down low, having been stretched too far, too fast. “You pretend to be misunderstood. ‘Poor me, I’m the Devil, people think I’m evil. My father wronged me.’ It’s bullshit.” He could have sworn he saw her eyes roll back slightly before she fixed her gaze back to him, piercing and unnerving. “You’re a fucking fraud. Evil in a three-piece suit.” _A wolf in sheep skin_ , is what she meant. Predator disguised as prey. It was far from the truth, and a very small, vulnerable, deeply wounded part of him wanted to believe she knew that, that she was just trying to say what would hurt the most.

Lucifer tilted his head up, putting a little more power behind each thrust. Her head hit the wall behind her, dangerously close to the edge of broken mirror and blood-stained drywall. “All those exaggerations and hyperbolic stories… they had to come from some truth, yeah?” he grunted through thrusts, gripping her throat tighter, her face still far from red, her breathing barely labored; he wasn’t going to far, yet. “It’s not like you humans _haven’t_ been lying since the beginning of your creation!” He felt the gun against his side press in harder, jostled with every thrust, the rhythmic thud of the table against the wall was irritating, but an unavoidable sound. A hate-fuck metronome.

He fucked her a little longer, waiting for any counter-argument she would try to make, an excuse she could give on why humans could be the way they were, why he wasn’t afforded the same luxury. Nothing came, and he couldn’t tell if he wanted a fight or if he was glad he seemed to have won it. “Maybe you’re right,” he spoke up, tilting her chin up so she was forced to look at him again. They were both panting, and he could feel her walls fluttering around him, but the determined set to her jaw made it obvious that she wasn’t trying to enjoy it. “So what does that make you? Innocent, naïve little human hunted-down by the big, bad Devil? Yeah, now _that’s_ bullshit,” he spit out, to himself more than to her, he looked down at where they were connected, watched the way the soft, silky lips of her sex wrapped around his cock, stretching and pulling with every thrust in or out. It looked so fucking good, he loved seeing the way a body could bend to accommodate him, how he could get himself in there and touch places no one had. “Why is it that it’s not until _after_ you’ve seen my face that I have my cock in you?”

His gaze shot back to her face, where he was met with blue eyes nearly black, probably the most heated a human’s could get. His own eyes continued to blaze, he didn’t think he could control back over that, he was too angry, to hurt, but the temperature was altering his vision, waves of distortion bending light. She was still breathtaking.

“I never asked you to fuck me,” Chloe said around a swallow, adjusting her position, hand gripping the table with white knuckles, gun digging into his side for purchase. “I didn’t want it.” Her eyes dropped for half a second as she said the last bit, like she knew she would be caught if she didn’t look away. They were back quickly, though, without evidence of anything but revulsion.

Lucifer paused, his cock buried to the hilt inside her, pressing further, trying to get more. “Oh, really? I forced myself in you?” He asked, voice incredulous and almost humored. Didn’t really feel like it. You were so fucking wet I just slid right on in,” he added, a smirk forming on his lips, finally feeling like he was gaining some traction in this encounter. He bent down, closing the distance between their faces, making sure they were eye-to-eye, noses brushing, lips teasing. “You’re _dripping_. For what? Is it the struggle or me that’s getting you so desperate?” He forced the _please_ he wanted to put somewhere in that statement to stay behind his teeth, the _please let it be me_ dying on his tongue, jabbing at his soul. It was a naïve wish, to hope that he was still wanted, somewhere deep inside her. A place he was trying to reach with his own anatomy.

Her eyes lowered to his mouth, her upper lip trembling in frustration. She let go of the table, squeezing her legs around Lucifer as if he could possible let her fall, and reached up, grasping the back of his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. A brutal sort of thing; nothing but teeth and tongue, and she bit the wound she had already left on his lip, fresh blood pooling in the crack of skin. They moaned into it, ignoring the implication of their shared sound; what they were doing was not about mutual enjoyment, it was about proving just how well anger and pain could connect people.

She tore her mouth away from his, and, stupidly, he tried to chase her lips, panting into the air, wishing for more, even if it were another stinging bite. The pain reinforced who he was with; it was Chloe, and reality couldn’t be bent from that. “It’ll never be you, Lucifer,” she said, deceptively soft, as gently as she’d tell her daughter goodnight. That she loved her. Like a caressing whisper in the back of his head: _I’ll never love you_.

He closed his eyes, brows knitting together. It came off as weakness, he was sure of it, but it was the only thing keeping his monster at bay. The cage was breaking, rusted metal creaking under the pressure, and soon the beast would claw his way out, take over, and then any ounce of civility would be out the window. He couldn’t allow that. He took a deep breath, feeling just how hot the air was around him. He felt like his blood was simmering inside him, his eyes raging even brighter, less red and more yellow, like the super-hot magma, not slightly cooled lava.

“Well, that’s just not true, is it?” he asked, his voice unsettlingly calm. It threw her off, if her wide eyes and parted lips said anything about it. He opened his eyes, could see the red light reflecting from them in her own, swallowing her blue, all that made her _Chloe._ Her face was glowing from them, and it warmed her complexion, added life to the slightly ashen features she’d had since he showed up. “It _is_ me! Right here, right now!” he bellowed, wrapping his arm around her waist, bloody hand staining the shirt, leaving his temporary mark on her. He lifted her up, easily and smoothly, one hand still on her throat, squeezing and massaging, almost comforting, if not for the depraved look on his face. “I’m inside you,” he added, like she couldn’t tell, like she couldn’t feel the stretch of her body around his.

He walked them to the living room, keeping the eerie silence between them the entirety of the short trip. When he was sure no spare shards of glass were around, he lowered down to his knees, tossing her to the ground in front of him. He slowly moved himself back between her legs, bracing his hands on either side of her head, boxing her in again, making her small and vulnerable beneath him. The ground rumbled, a vibration that could be mistaken for a large vehicle traveling down the street, but they were very much aware of it. Chloe looked around, startled, the gun falling out of her hand and she reached and grabbed onto Lucifer’s forearms. Fear was a powerful thing, and he wasn’t sure if she was searching for comfort, or trying to get him to stop.

The rumbling was caused by him, his own body trembling with it, and if steam could rise out of his ears, it would be. His skin was sparking with the red hidden under the layer of flesh, like lightening bolts of hellfire breaking across the sky of his body. She pulled her hands back towards herself, fearing she would feel the burn, and he didn’t have the kindness in him to tell her it didn’t work like that. If she wanted, no, needed, proof of what he was, what he could do, she was getting it. The air was thick and heavy with heat, unholy energy flowing around them like desperate grasps from the souls it tormented. He could hear the screaming, could hear the laughter of all the demons, could hear the fiery river raging through black stone and falling ash. He could feel it all in her house, with her on the floor, with her sex exposed to him, with his leaking cock so close to where it wanted back in.

“Tell me, Chloe,” he ordered, pushing his knees forward to slide inside of her, a harsh thrust that made her wince; legs twining around him where they belonged. “Do you think Daddy is proud of you right now?” He began thrusting, fast and deep, taking all he could get from her, pressing his weight into her hips, his arms, lowering down to his elbows to get closer to her, to really see the fear and disdain in her eyes, to see her kiss-swollen lips. “Do you think he’s looking down, watching his only daughter being fucked by the _actual_ Devil, moaning like a whore for it?” He chuckled, sneering at the hurt his words caused her. It felt good, to get a win in this battle; she had held the lead for far too long.

She blinked back stinging tears in her eyes, impressively keeping the wetness contained. “At least mine would care enough to watch,” she retorted, nostrils flaring with fury. “Yours tossed you aside for the fuck-up you are. Has Daddy even looked at you since then?” She grinned, pure and unadulterated. A winning blow.

Lucifer’s uninjured hand found its way back to her throat, holding her down as he leaned up on his knees, bleeding hand tangling into her hair, tugging. “I wasn’t just _tossed aside_ like a disobedient puppy,” he yelled, anger boiling over, the monster creeping up, getting closer to breaking the bars. “I was thrown to the bowels of the fucking universe, with the demons and monsters, with all things vile. Thrown away with the rest of my Father’s rejected creations,” he continued, jaw clenching. She struck a nerve with him that time, and his finely-tuned control was waning by the second. Soon, he’d have to worry about her safety, worry about the painful fury rising in him. It needed out, the beast within, and its claws were wounding him; a predatory caught in a trap would bite its own leg off to get out. Desperation at its most brutal.

“Actions have consequences,” she gasped out, neck straining against his hold, back trying to arch off the ground, unable to from his weight. She couldn’t have believed what she said, he thought, _prayed_ , because she was smarter than that. Surely she had to know that what he did didn’t earn him a millennia as the bane of all existence.

“Do you think an _eternity_ of punishment is justifiable for giving someone a fucking _choice_?!” he yelled, his skin flashing more red, a lightning storm of anger, and he could see smoke rising from his hands. “That’s something you humans get wrong ALL THE TIME,” he continued, pounding into her with righteous vehemence. Chloe’s punched-out gasps could barely be heard over the sounds of slapping skin and an ethereal movement of air around them, flecks of sparks and ash snowing down around them. “I didn’t make her do shit! I didn’t _force_ her to come to me, and I _certainly_ didn’t force her to sit on my cock,” he finished, holding Chloe down harder than he probably would have in nicer circumstances, not this bellicostic conflict. 

“Nothing’s ever your fault, Lucifer,” she spat hoarsely, coughing at the pressure on her throat. “Man up, take some goddamn responsibility for once.” He grit his teeth, shaking his head at her, chuckling from the pure audacity, like he just couldn’t believe it, all the while fucking into her with a purpose. “Your first victim is sitting in your fucking penthouse,” she continued, struggling around his hold. He wasn’t gentle, but he was far from cruel, and if anyone could take it, she could. An almost manic energy ran through him, and he was entranced with the way her tits bounced with every thrust, how their bodies were sliding along the carpet, no doubt causing some carpet burn on Chloe’s lower back.

Lucifer shouldn’t be the only one to burn that night, to carry marks, albeit unseen, as a cruel reminder of what betrayal and fear can do to people.

“Eve is _not_ a victim,” he growled, lifting her head up by the grip on her throat, shoving it back down onto the carpet to punctuate his words. She was treading dangerous waters; the beast was getting desperate for freedom within.

“You tricked her,” she ground out, brows pinching together as she held in a moan. “You can’t hide from that. Can’t just run-off to Vegas like a little bitch and leave her behind.” Chloe’s eyes rolled a little, her features screwing together as her walls fluttered. She whimpered and Lucifer felt her muscles stop; climax staved, for now. “She doesn’t belong here, and neither do you.”

The crack of his bloody palm across her cheek was unmistakable in the whooshing hot air of the room, the crackling of sparks around them, the sound of something smoldering just beneath the surface of his skin. His eyes widened, and he pulled his hand back as if he received the short sting. His mouth gaped liked a fish, opening and closing in the uncertainty of what to say; he hadn’t expected to do something like that, and although it was relatively light, the implication of it was clear. Her long, gravely moan was not as surprising as it should have been, and that made something warm and exciting coil in his stomach.

“Doesn’t look like I’m the little bitch here, does it?” He pressed harder onto her throat, putting more of his weight on her as he ground their hips together painfully. “No, you’re the little bitch,” he spit out, tracing the faint outline of a large hand inked by blood on her cheek with his eyes. “You’re the little bitch who’s about to fucking cum on my cock.” He smirked down at her, and eyebrow raising as she shook her head, like she had a choice. She kept shaking her head even as her body betrayed her; Lucifer was good at the physical, reading the cues of an imminent orgasm. Hers was right on the edge, just a little more stimulation, a little more humiliation, and she’d be there. _He_ would get her there.

“I’m not even close,” she tried to say, but a whine came out right in the middle, and if she hadn’t have blatantly lied, he would have found it amusing.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he said calmly before slapping her again, on the same cheek, marking her skin again, letting the sting sink it as he kept his palm there, rubbing lightly. Trying to etch the feel of her face under his palm to memory. She let out another strangled moan, and the sound went straight to his cock, to his balls, and he realized he could be _there_ any minute, as well. He had the control of a saint, though, and he wouldn’t do _that_ until he was good and fucking ready. He slapped her a third time, putting a little bit more power behind it, gripping her jaw tightly right after, keeping her facing forward, facing him.

He hated that she liked it; hated it even more because he knew she would. Hated seeing the way her eyes rolled back, how the languid groans escaped her plump, bitten lips, how she bit that same lip, how she opened her eyes and glared at him with all the rage of a woman losing to a man. He hated how fucking hard he got for it. How it checked all of his boxes, because it wasn’t supposed to be like that with her. It was supposed to be fun and exciting, not a necessity brought on by spite. Not this raging fire of loathing and scorn swirling between them.

That was the worst part. If she had never seen his other face, if she had never fled out of fear, they would be just fine. But it was too late for pleasantries and what ifs. Words had been said, unable to be taken back; Lucifer wasn’t a liar, and that stung, knowing it meant all of it. Knowing she did, too. Only people who had loved and let it turn to resentment could fuck like that: like they wanted to eat each other alive, like they wanted to swallow them down, piece by piece, and keep them forever. [He’d have to pay Jeffrey Dahmer a visit when he got back down to hell; tell him his delusion made more sense. Tell him he understood _why_ before putting a drill to his head, making it loop a million times, letting his demons have their way with him. Succeed where he had failed and turn him into an eternal zombie, all while remaining sentient.

“You’re done lying to me, Chloe,” he growled, fucking her with clear intent, to get her to cum, to get her to explode on him, let him feel the pleasure he had so desperately wanted for so many years. Finally let him have his piece of the fucking cake. “I can feel it, the way you’re trembling around me, the way you clenched with every slap, the way you choke out a moan when I squeeze you _just right_ ,” he preached, choking her more, giving her the little bit of breath-and-blood play she seemed to enjoy, just shy of too much. “As I said,” he started, lowering down so he could mouth at her jaw, the soft skin below her ear. “You’re a fucking whore for the Devil inside you, and I’ll give you what you need.”

The air around them changed again as he latched his mouth to her neck, right above where his own thumb dug in to soft skin. His teeth came into play, nibbling at mortal flesh, feeling the thrum of her blood in the veins and capillaries, bringing that dark warmth close to the surface. He loved the way her skin tasted on his tongue, it was pure perfection, and it was the greatest sin to not enjoy it while so much of it writhed beneath him. She did nothing but goad him, egg him on, taunt him with all her false acceptance and curiosity. She was just like the rest: hated and despised him for what a fucking _book_ said about him, for being something other than godly, for wanting to be like anyone else and breathe on his fucking own, only used when they needed an excuse for their own vile behaviors. It was sickening, it was so flawed, and she jumped into that damned fire with the rest.

The room went black, lights fading, cowering from the celestial presence of hellish light, a red glow that emanated from Lucifer’s eyes, the flashes of his own duality, the fires that seemed to come from nowhere, the overwhelming heat of the Devil’s wrath laid bare and exposed, putting all of that behind his hips, fucking the small thing on the ground until she all but fell apart on his cock. He could see her, eyes wide and mouth open, and he could feel her beneath his own body, one that just barely clung to the more human appearance he wore so proudly. He was so close to turning to that other side of him, the monstrous, red beast, but he hated that version of himself even more than everyone else did. Letting that out in whispers of breaking flesh and glowing eyes, just a taste of the outside, did the trick enough.

She whined loudly, and that brought him out of his own fury enough to acknowledge her once again. She was beautiful like that: all distress and pleasurable rapture. The best thing he’d ever seen, ever felt. Fuck, he wanted it. He wanted to wring her body of that pleasure he craved. He wanted to feel every muscle give-in to him, contract and loosen for him, tense and release at his command. He wanted to own her, consume her, drag her down to hell with him to keep for all eternity; his little play-thing to remind him of the Earth he left behind, of a woman who was once all he ever wanted. But it was just fantasy. The darkest parts of this thoughts that he would never allow to become true. He’d never do it, but something he learned a long time ago was that thoughts were just thoughts, actions were what made the man. He wouldn’t act on it, and that was all that mattered.

Unable to take it anymore, he rucked her shirt up, exposing her pert breasts to the warmth of the air; nipples hard and flushed. He watched as a fleck of ash, still glowing with a dying ember, landed on the dusty bud and she hissed, but her walls clamped down, tearing a groan from his raw throat. They really were marvelous, lovely and plump, just the slightest amount of hang that all mothers couldn’t avoid without the help of a surgeon and a sack of silicone. He preferred them the way they were: natural, showing all the trials and tribulations of the woman carrying them. He only wished things were different so he could give them the attention they deserve, but things would never be that way between them, not after the aggression and cruel words they were hurting each other with.

“Such a shame anyone can get a look at these after dusting off a DVD case in their parents collection,” Lucifer quipped, and it was Chloe’s turn to be the victim of a petty comment. Lucifer hid the smirk he felt, knowing it was childish, but felt so good to finally hit her with something that would hurt, something that would humiliate her the way she had destroyed him with a few sentences.

“You think that’ll get me to cum?” Chloe grunted, and Lucifer knew she would be feeling him for _days_ after this, hopefully for weeks. He was working for that, pounding into her relentlessly, not really holding back, hopefully setting a deep ache into her pelvis.

“I don’t need help doing that,” he replied smoothly, leaning up on his knees, taking his hand off her throat, watching the way the muscles expanded to take their first deep breath in a while. It was glorious. He used his arms to throw her legs over his shoulders, keeping his cock inside of her, before leaning back down, left hand cupping the top of her head, keeping her still, the bloody one covering her mouth, silencing her. “You’re going to cum because I make you.” There was a second where her eyes widened and she tried to say something under his palm, but he fucked himself into her deeply, her hips rising off the ground, bent in half.

He heard her subdued moan, her eyes fluttering as they tried to stay open. She was livid, he could see it in her eyes, and all he could do was smirk down at her wickedly; he was good and wringing orgasms out of people, and she was just about at the point of no return. The air was electric with their fucking, sparks shooting in the room, across his skin, burning him from the inside out. It was all work it, for getting to be inside of her; filling her up with every inch of himself. With her bent like that, he could bury every bit of his cock inside of her, knowing the pressure was intense, knowing it was probably just a little too much. He loved that.

He was down on his forearms, body on top of hers, pinning her down, keeping her from getting away. He could feel every punched-out grunt beneath his hand, tickling the cuts, tacky blood smearing on her lower face. Their faces were close, noses brushing, and if he wanted, he could purse his lips and kiss her through his fingers, but he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to keep her mouth covered, feel her struggle to keep quiet. The glow of his eyes reflected in hers, making her look hellish, demonic in a way only an angel could, and it was mesmerizing. If he wasn’t careful, he’d blow his load before he got her off, and that just wouldn’t do. His pride couldn’t handle that after everything else. With this angle, he could tell the seam of his slacks was rubbing her clit brutally, and he knew that it would be her undoing. He chuckled darkly as she screamed beneath his hand, eyes screwing shut, body tensing before melting as her walls squeezed his cock harder than any other woman ever had. It almost took his breath away, it almost sucked his rotten soul right out of him through his favorite tool for sin. It took a while for her to finish, for her body to stop shuddering, for her to finally collapse in a toneless mass beneath him.

He moved his arms so her legs would slide off his shoulders, landing on either side of his hips, he pulled his hand off of her mouth and she gasped loudly, trying to catch her breath, before he shoved his tongue inside, pulling it out before she could suck on it, running it along her bloodied chin. It was his turn, and he didn’t give her time to recover before his hand was on her throat again, the other pushing against her hip, keeping her still. It was a slick slide after her orgasm, copious amounts of arousal coated his cock, and he was shining with it. She continued to gasp as she came back to herself; anger seeping back into her eyes now that her high was over, now that she could remember she had long been taught to hate the Devil.

It was the easy part, his time to seek his pleasure. It was never hard when he had a wet hole to plunder, a pretty face and hot body; a mess laid out like a buffet all for him. That was what Chloe looked like to him: a gorgeous mess all for him, all because of him, still coming out holy and righteous while he was stoned by his past, burned by everything that was him, and suffered for anything he could ever do. He swallowed thickly, thrusting into her in long, deep drags. Hitting that wall inside her and still going. She grimaced, but took the punishment, because deep-down, that was what all of this was. A punishment, for both of them. Because it wasn’t hate at the heart of this. It might have instigated it, took the step they were both too afraid to take, but it was something much sweeter, no less intense, that they shared. The punishment was never having that, ruining it and putting it six feet below ground.

“Guess that leaves you,” Chloe commented, finding her voice now that her rage was still weighed down with the honey-thick haze of post-orgasmic numbness. It was the indifference in her tone that crushed his soul and tore at his paper-thin control.

“Trust me,” he grunted, grinning down at her, thrusting faster and harder, making it hurt on purpose. “I wouldn’t leave here without getting mine.”

“What are you gonna do, Lucifer?” she asked, and in any other circumstance, he would have loved to discover all the places Chloe would have let him decorate her with his seed.

“Maybe I’ll cum all over you, make you even more of a slutty mess,” he retorted through clenched teeth. She was so tight, even tighter after her orgasm, and the tension in her walls was milking his cock in the best of ways. Her body was made to pull his release from him; was made to keep it sacred and precious. “Paint one of my Father’s miracles with sin.” She gasped after a particularly hard thrust, biting her bottom lip to keep her from making any more noise than that. “You wouldn’t be the first, certainly not the last, but you’ll probably be the most satisfying to cover in my cum. Make you look like my filthy whore.”

“Oh,” she sighed, and she sounded annoyingly disappointed with that information. That enraged him like no other; again, she thought she had any say, any opinion, on what they were doing. “Gonna pull out and fucking spray me like some impotent juvenile?”

“That’s not why,” he snarled, shoving himself inside of her harshly, ignoring the soft cry that escaped her lips. “It’s because you don’t deserve my cum inside you,” he ground out, eyes raging once again, the last string of control snapping like a twig. He stilled his hips, keeping himself buried, staring down at her with all the wrath only the Devil could contain within himself. The room seemed to be engulfed in flames, but neither of them felt the stinging licks of flame, only the heat radiating off of his form, seeping out of him in waves. “You’re a liar, and a deceiver, pretending to accept me when you _knew, KNEW_ , that was the only fucking thing I wanted!” he shouted, voice changing, the air burning around them, nothing touched by flames, everything remaining the same. Except them. They were changed then.

She looked up at him, almost softly, and her eyes started to well with tears that he couldn’t be bothered to care about. “Really, Chloe? How could you do that to me? Hm?” he continued to yell, body shaking over hers, the grip on her throat clenching and unyielding, giving her only enough breath to listen to him. “That was worse than anything I’ve ever done to anyone in all my infinite years.” His voice was softer than he had wanted, a choked-off sob freeing itself from his chest as a single tear fell onto her cheek from above. That was the turning point; the admission that he hadn’t even allowed himself to consider. She hurt him far worse than he had ever hurt anyone else. The only person he ever cared deeply for, and she abandoned him, threw him to the religious dogs, and almost succeeded in banishing him; a second fall. That was unforgiveable.

Suddenly, as if directed by his ragged breathing, the room returned to normal, only the damage they had created was left. No burning, no scorch marks, nothing to say that the Devil had been there, had come and delivered a punishment but was the one left crying at the end. He tried to control his breathing as he leaned up, taking his hands off of her and running one through his hair. He couldn’t even finish; he was drained, emotionally and physically with the weight of that realization. There was no coming back from it. He didn’t think he wanted anything to do with it, either. He cleared his throat, blinking the tears back into his skull, to not give her the satisfaction of seeing his weakness.

“Lucifer,” she started, holding up a hand but snatching it back, like the air could still burn.

“Stop talking.” He shook his head, stuffing his softening cock back into his slacks before standing up, leaving her on the floor. He couldn’t even maintain his erection after that, everything hurt way too much to even feel an inkling of arousal. A problem Lucifer had _never_ had before. “I don’t care. It’s done.” He dared another look at her, on the ground, bloodied up by his own ichor, nearly naked, a mess of sex and violence. She was stunning, heartbreakingly stunning, and that pulled harder in his empty chest than anything. How could something so breathtakingly beautiful hurt him so bad? Oh, that’s right. His Father had a hand in her creation, it was never really meant for him to have happily. She was the only one to make him bleed, and that included any semblance of a heart he could muster.

His eyes started to sting and he chose to turn away from her before another tear fell in front of her. He had been wounded enough that evening, his pride didn’t need to take another fatal hit. He was three steps from the door when he was wrought with laughter, a maniacal sort of laughter that would be concerning to anyone who could see him. The kind of laughter only pain could induce.

“I can’t believe it actually took a fucking miracle for me to see who I really am,” he admitted through bubbling giggles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He glanced anther look behind him and he found Chloe sitting up but still on the ground, using her shirt to cover her modesty (as if he had left her with any of that). “Who I’ve always been.” The final admission sobered him up a little, and he swallowed thickly as a tear fell down Chloe’s cheek. She was supposed to be feeling smug and victorious, not crying, especially not on his behalf. He had nothing left to give her, though, to help bring her up while he piled the final mound of dirt on top of his own grave. There was nothing left to give.

When he walked out of her home, closing the door behind him, he knew that was the last time he’d ever walk away from her. The relief was bittersweet; a toasted marshmallow on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Further explanation of concerning tags:
> 
> I’ve tagged this dubious consent because Chloe never verbalizes that she is okay with anything Lucifer is doing. She barely tries to stop him and never tells him to stop, neither verbally or nonverbally. It’s not rape, if that’s what you need to know. 
> 
> Verbal humiliation is heavy in this fic. This means that they both say a lot of shit that is hurtful and downright abusive. It’s used to continue to fuel the aggression and hateful mannerisms of both Lucifer and Chloe. Chloe is not an innocent victim here; she gives just as good as she gets in terms of verbal/emotional abuse. 
> 
> There’s blood, but it’s not used as a kink here, and Lucifer cuts his hand on broke glass, and doesn’t do anything to stop the bleeding or to not injure it further. 
> 
> There’s a bit of face slapping in this fic (Lucifer to Chloe), and it’s not light, but definitely not hard enough to leave a permanent mark. It’s clear, in the narrative, that Chloe liked it. 
> 
> Chloe is forced to orgasm, and I tagged this because she isn’t trying to have one, but she can’t help it. Lucifer does what he can to ensure she has an orgasm.
> 
> Lucifer has a ruined orgasm in the way that he is unable to orgasm after a particularly hurtful topic is realized. His mind detaches too much from the situation, and he starts to soften before he can have an orgasm. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Please, let me know what you thought. Positive or negative, but I do feel I warned adequately. If it's not your thing, that's fine. Don't hate me for it. I had a great time exploring this darker side of both of the characters. Season 4 was Dark as Fuck, and I loved it. It was everything you'd expect from a Devil that felt everything too deeply and felt abandoned by the only person he loved. Just imagine how Chloe felt; knowing she had been told the truth from day 1, but deep down having that inherent fear everyone has for the Devil, yet she fell in love with the man she thought he was. 
> 
> We can have lengthy chats in the comments about the psychopathology of the characters and what I've done here (it's my thing, I'll be honest). 
> 
> Until next time!!!


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